Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

morning. The doc still has him in one of their racks, hooked up to an IV. He should be good to go soon, especially since the seas have calmed considerably."

Hopefully, the doc would keep the staff sergeant connected to that IV for a bit longer. At least until she'd had a chance to snoop through the Marine's belongings—without Brandt in attendance. The corporal's, too.

Before John had ordered her to sleep last night, he'd told her the coffee Hachemi had consumed was already in the conference room when he'd arrived for their final interview. Which meant both guards were at the top of her suspect list, whether she wanted them there or not.

"Just a sec." Regan headed back into the stateroom to hook the fingers of her right hand around the handle of her crime scene kit. So far this morning, the digits appeared willing to cooperate with her brain. Accidental or not, she was thankful John had killed her alarm. The extra sleep had done her nerves a world of good.

Kit in hand, she closed the stateroom door behind her and locked it with considerably more finesse than she'd opened it with the night before.

"Let's go."

"Where to, ma'am?"

"Brandt's rack, then Vetter's." If the corporal had recently sat down to eat, there was more of a risk of the staff sergeant showing. Frankly, she'd prefer to keep both Marines ignorant of her activities and suspicions until the last possible moment.

Yrle nodded. "We put them up together in chief's country for security reasons. This way."

Regan followed the woman through the Griffith's passageways, nodding a return greeting to half a dozen enlisted sailors and a butterbar ensign along the way.

Chief Yrle came to a halt beside a slim gray door and knocked once.

No response.

Selecting a key from the hefty ring attached to her waist, Yrle used it to unlock the door. She pushed it open, then hooked an arm inside to flip on the overhead lights. "After you, ma'am."

"Thank you." Regan preceded the woman inside.

The stateroom was nearly identical to hers, though slightly smaller and with no private shower or latrine. The upper bunk had been neatly made up. The twisted sheets and blanket of the lower one, as well as the round metal trash can on the deck and tucked up near a mashed pillow, attested to its owner's nightlong ignoble activities.

As did the smell.

Though the tablespoon of water at the base of the gray can suggested it had been rinsed out via the stateroom's sink, the stench of vomit hung in the air.

No rush then.

And no wonder the quarters had been abandoned. She seriously doubted the staff sergeant who'd unwillingly created that odor or the corporal who'd been forced to endure it would be back anytime soon.

Regan set her crime kit on the deck and took a moment to reset the password on her phone before she opened her recording app. She stated her name and rank, as well as the chief's, and briefed the reason for her coming monologue as she and Yrle donned a pair of latex gloves. Beginning near the door, Regan described her activities for the recording as she began a systematic search of the metal wall unit, pausing to snap photos here and there along the way.

Unfortunately, she came up empty for contraband, let alone anything that looked as if it could have contained the poison that had been fed to Hachemi.

Uniforms, spare boots, laptop bags, duffels, as well as the carton of Pakistani smokes the staff sergeant appeared to prefer—they were all neatly stowed and devoid of strychnine.

She searched the bunkbeds next, hooking the toes of her boots up onto the metal edge of the lower rack so she could begin with the pristine upper one.

By the time Regan had climbed down, the corporal's bed was in as much disarray as the staff sergeant's. It was also clean of contraband and suspect containers.

Her equally detailed search of the lower bunk revealed a curiosity…and a potential hiding spot. Two of the packs of Pakistani smokes that she'd come across during her canvass of the wall unit were half empty. So why was there a third pack of smokes tucked between the staff sergeant's mattress and the far bulkhead?

Regan brought the smokes with her as she climbed out of the nest of twisted sheets to stand beside the bed.

Chief Yrle frowned at the pack. "Brandt's smoking in bed?"

Based on the censure in the chief's voice, Regan assumed the activity was as advisable aboard ship as it was on dry land. Possibly less so. She opened the pack. All twenty cigarettes were accounted for. And, yet, this pack was heavier than the others. She tapped the smokes out into her gloved palm. All were less than half the length of the packaging…and there was a false bottom inside.

"Grab an evidence bag from my kit, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

Regan transferred the stunted smokes to the proffered bag, leaving Yrle to seal it as she carefully worked the false bottom free.

A small, dark blue bottle rolled out into her palm. She twisted off the lid and spotted traces of clear liquid in the tip of the attached eye dropper.

"Strychnine." Yrle's whisper filled the stateroom, stark with disappointment.

Given the stunted smokes and the hidden bottom?

"Yup."

Damn. She liked the burly Marine. But it appeared Brandt hadn't liked the translator. Possibly less than she and John had.

But premeditated murder?

Because that was precisely what this was shaping up to be.

Regan sighed as she closed the bottle. She snapped photos of the outside of the now empty pack of smokes and the bottle, then tucked both into the fresh evidence bag Yrle held up. She checked her watch.

0748.

Not enough time for the chromatography testing. Not unless she wanted to keep a general waiting. Something that, even during a murder/terror investigation, wasn't advisable. But she did have time for a few questions.

"Chief, did you get to know Staff Sergeant Brandt this past month?"

"Not really. Well, we did talk college football. We both have brothers who play, though mine's